


The lonely mariner

by unknownlifeform



Series: Tolkien Gen Week [4]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Introspection, Loneliness, Tolkien Gen Week 2020, a brief appearance of tilion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:54:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25161991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknownlifeform/pseuds/unknownlifeform
Summary: Earendil has a lot of time on his hands to think. He's alone on his ship all night, after all, there isn't much else he can do to make the night pass.
Series: Tolkien Gen Week [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1818310
Comments: 8
Kudos: 15





	The lonely mariner

**Author's Note:**

> Who knew I cared about Earendil? Not me, but then this fic happened and now I do.
> 
> Day Four: Solo

Eärendil’s legs were dangling off the side of Vingilótë. He was humming to himself, an old Mannish song his father had taught him as a child. He didn’t remember what the song was about, only the tune and a couple words of the chorus.

The night was calm. There were no strange winds, and the clouds were all far away from him. Some nights, Eärendil would have to struggle at the helm the whole time else he got dragged off, but then there were also these nights, when he was free to lie down on deck and laze around.

The sky wasn’t quite so different from the sea in that aspect. It had taken Eärendil a while to learn it, but in the end leaving a bad current was much the same as getting out of a bad wind. Just, the wind had a few additional directions it could blow him to. A good sailor, however, could easily enough learn how to sail the air as well as the water, and it was not for nothing if Eärendil was named the Mariner.

He still missed the sea. The scent of it, the sound of it, the gentle rock of the ship as it rode the waves. It had been a long time since he had last been in water. At night he had to steer Vingilótë in the sky, and during the day he had to sleep, and rarely had enough free time to go dip his feet into the water.

The main difference between sea and sky, however, was the crew. In his youth, Eärendil always had others with him, be it one or twenty sailors. Vingilótë was not the smallest of ships, and in the past he had often needed a helping hand.

Now the ship was enchanted, and Eärendil could sail by himself. Which was fair, because this was Eärendil’s fate, and he did not want others to be dragged into it. Not that he would have a hard time finding volunteers. Many in Valinor would jump at the chance of helping him.

Not that Eärendil would ask. Most of those were kids, the kind of young fools who heard that he had slayed a dragon once and decided they wanted to come with him on a great adventure. Too bad dragons were extraordinaire business. Most of the time, it was just sailing.

Alone.

With nothing to do but to search for shapes in the clouds. That one kind of looked like a fish.

One would think Eärendil would have gotten used to it after centuries, but there were nights when he thought his fëa would just leave his body out of boredom.

He could not help it. Everyone had always told him he was more Man than Elf, ever since he was a child. He had never had the patience of the Elves, who could sit around in the same place for years and barely get tired. Choosing immortality had not given him that skill. He needed things to do, places to explore.

His humming trailed off. This would be one of those nights that he spent pondering why he had not chosen to be a mortal back when he could.

Rationally, he knew his choice had been for the best. Who would have killed that fat lizard hadn’t he been around? And who would guide his son’s people, his descendants, in the night sky, were the Star of Eärendil not there?

And Elwing. He could have never left her alone. His wife was a much more fragile woman than she pretended to be, and she had already lost so much back then.

It was unfortunate that reasons and feelings so rarely went along. Eärendil’s life had been much longer than he ever would have cared for it to be, and he could not say he had lived most of it to the best. Not exploring the far seas as he used to, not spending time with his family and wife and those sons he had never had the chance to know, not even ruling as should have perhaps been his duty once. No, he just sailed. Lit up the sky with that shiny rock strapped to his brow.

Elwing would be so mad, had she heard Eärendil call the Silmaril a shiny rock. Lectured him on the history of it, and how many people had died for it. And Eärendil wouldn’t have argued, really, he had been right in the middle of it. He might have not lost what she had to the bloodshed following that gem, but he had had his own share of suffering connected to it.

However, when one started wearing a possibly cursed artifact every day of his life for centuries, it started to lose its magic a little. Beautiful, powerful, bloodied, but a shiny rock it was, and Eärendil had never been all that fascinated with rocks. He wasn’t in _that_ branch of the family.

He had heard his grandfather would be reborn soon. Eärendil did not remember Turgon well, he had been far too young when Gondolin had fell. A face, and dark hair, and arms picking him up, but it was all hazy and distant. He didn’t have any single clear memories of Turgon.

His parents had told him stories, of course. His grandfather had sounded like a good person, but perhaps not one Eärendil would have gotten along with. He could not imagine spending his whole life closed in a hidden city in the mountains.

Now Aredhel, she was more of a kindred spirit. An explorer. Eärendil liked his great-aunt, but rarely spent much time with her. Conflicting schedules aside, he had had nightmares of her son for years, and while it hadn’t been her fault Maeglin had turned out that way Eärendil could not quite feel at ease around her.

He figured he should at least go meet his grandfather, even if he barely knew him. At least to be polite. Turgon would be happy to see his grandson again. Probably. Nevermind that the last time they had seen each other Eärendil had been just a small child with ears a little too round.

What would have Turgon thought, if upon coming back from the dead he had discovered his grandson had died of old age a long time before?

No use thinking about it. Eärendil might regret his choice, at times, but he could not go back on it.

Not for the first time, he found himself wondering how was his son doing. Not Elrond, Eärendil did wonder about Elrond but he also knew well enough what he was up to. Serving Gil-Galad in Middle Earth. He could just look down on him if he wanted.

Elros, on the other hand. Eärendil had no idea where he had ended up to. He could only hope he was happy, wherever he was.

Perhaps Eärendil was a little jealous that his son had gotten to know what was beyond the veil of mortal death.

Which was not just ridiculous, but quite a bit shameful as well. Fathers weren’t supposed to be jealous of their children, even those who had done very little in the ways of actual parenting. It still gave him heartache to remember how young his sons had been the last time Eärendil had seen them, even younger than he had been when Gondolin fell.

And now Elrond was a grown Elf, known and respected by many, and no doubt he would struggle to recognize Eärendil if they were to meet now. Elros probably wouldn’t have recognized him either, but that was no longer a problem. It wasn’t as if he’d ever meet his son again.

Eru, he needed to pull himself together. Distract himself, find other things to ponder, else he ended up lying there all night thinking of the past and of what ifs. This train of thought only served the purpose of putting him in a bad mood.

People in Middle Earth liked to call him Gil-Estel. How many jokes would they make, down there, if they knew how melancholic Hope was at times?

Finally, a distraction came for him, in the form of a bright light coming from below Vingilótë and getting higher.

Eärendil sat up with a grunt, and looked down.

When they got close to each other, he took a deep breath, and shouted, “hail Tilion, o carrier of the Moon! Tell me, most powerful of the Maiar, how is our lady Arien?”

The silver Maia glared up at Eärendil, face covered in fresh burns. “Fuck off, sailor!”

Eärendil laughed. “Such words from a herald of the Valar! Is this truly how you carry your work?”

“Says you! How will people see your light if you are taking a nap on the ship?”

“They will see it well enough,” Eärendil shouted. The Silmaril was bright enough for the whole world to spot. “And you must forgive me if I am tired, I did not sleep much yesterday. I could not miss the most beautiful eclipse you gifted us in decades.”

Tilion swore at him some more, and Eärendil kept laughing, but did not provoke him further. He knew from experience Tilion was not above chasing him across the sky if he became truly annoyed, and Eärendil would not want to send him off course again.

However, Tilion was right that Eärendil could not keep lying around. An eastern wind was starting to fill Vingilótë’s sails. Not a powerful one, but Eärendil would better get up and go manage it. Mortals were relying on him to navigate, and he would not want for his fellow mariners to get lost.

**Author's Note:**

> Let Tilion say fuck


End file.
